Roger Moore, the spy I loved

RIP Sir Roger Moore, international man of mystery, former James Bond and true english gent. When I met him in 2000, the swinging Seventies were but a faint memory, but they lived on in the suave depths of Roger’s wardrobe.

There he was, ablaze with charm inside his blazer, riffling through the list of local doctors and medical specialists that he carried everywhere. Moore said he wasn’t a hypochondriac because hypochondriacs only thought they were ill, whereas he knew he was.

Seven years earlier he’d been told he had prostate cancer, a diagnosis which changed everything. Although he made a full recovery — and gave up cigars, red meat, chocolate and ice cream — he never again took his life for granted. ‘It made me re-evaluate my place on the planet,’ he told me. Following treatment, he shocked his family by leaving his third wife, Luisa, and setting up home with Kristina Tholstrup, a widow and former neighbour. She was also a cancer survivor, and this shared experience led to their closeness.

he talked in a rich, oaky, jet-set voice that was a complete construct, for Moore was the son of a South London policeman. he was a working-class boy who transformed himself, the ultimate Cinderfella.

he was also surprisingly sentimental and would cry at weddings, Scottish pipe bands and Royal Tournaments. Reading the lesson at his daughter’s wedding, he said, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

When once asked what he would bring to the role of James Bond that Sean Connery could not, he replied: ‘White teeth.’

Loved that man.